We Live To Die
by gosharoony
Summary: Live life to the fullest and die when you're ready. / drabble set after Johnny dies in the hospital. 2nd person pov.


**title:** we live to die.

**pov:** 2nd person.

**rating:** T

**word count:** 679 (drabble)

i can't write shit right now. bear with me. read and review, man, read and review. and the title is just some weird thing i thought of. i don't know. it kind of sounds like something dally would say.

i typed this at like midnight so if there are any mistakes (which there shouldnt be but who the hell knows) then blame insomnia. not me.

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><p><strong><em>we live to die.<em>**

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><p>You can't think straight; too much has happened to even consider thinking straight. Your head's pounding, like those angry landlords in New York when you're late with rent. He's dead, that's all you can think of, the little fucker's dead. Not to mention you basically left the other one up there with that… that carcass of what used to be the only thing you cared about — the only <em>person<em> you cared about. With more pounding comes less reasoning. It's that goddamn Soc's fault.

Right now you're wondering how Ponyboy's gonna get home, but who the fuck cares, because Johnny ain't even alive anymore. You're bein' selfish, cause Ponyboy was all beat up and you just left him there. God knows what'll happen to 'em. Can't do that much harm, you decide, he's in a fuckin' hospital after all. You're wishin' you had some aspirin to stop the pounding, but you ain't got shit. Hell, you don't even have your own fuckin' sanity, and you sure don't have any pain killers.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. You're thinkin' of giving those Socs a major piece of their own medicine, but you hardly got out of the cooler more than a week ago; you ain't itchin' to go back just yet. Oh damn, Darry's gonna beat the daylights out of you for leavin' Ponyboy like that. You don't care much, though, 'cause Darry knows his boundaries. He could take you any damn day, and he'd fuckin' beat you into the ground, but he won't.

_The fuck is logic _you think as you're sitting in your car. Your head is still pounding, and your skull is probably going to crack any moment now. You're ready for it. You're ready to die.

Johnny's the only thing you got — the only thing you had. Your parents don't care, that's for sure. You got the gang, but it ain't enough to fill the void that Johnny left. _Stop bein' soft_, you think to yourself, _you're Dallas fuckin' Winston_. But then you stop thinkin', because that shit hurts right now.

You don't know where the headache came from, and hell, you don't even consider this a headache. This is more of a death sentence to you. It's that one final thing that pushes you to the edge. It cheers you on, whispering in your ear to _just fuckin' do it_.

You don't know what happened to your car, but now you're running. You don't know where, but your legs are takin' you somewhere, and you're head's pounding too hard to consider what might be goin' on. You're Dallas Winston anyways, whatever illegal shit you do will just get added to your record; no sweat.

You remember those girls at the movies… what the fuck were their names? Berry… or was it Cherry? You think that's the feisty redhead. And then there was that other irrelevant one. You don't remember her name, and honestly you don't give a rat's ass. Started with an M. M… somethin'. Head's pounding too hard, and your feet are pounding against the pavement. That ain't really helping you, but you don't have any control over yourself right now. You've lost all sense of self control. Johnny took that with him.

Johnny… this is all that kid's fuckin' fault, you decide after awhile. He stabbed that son of a bitch, and this is what he gets in return. _It's all your fault. You left him at the movies. You started with that girl._

And now you're running again, but it's different this time. There are fuckin' sirens chasing after you. You ain't scared, that's for sure, Dallas Winston don't get scared. Dallas Winston don't have feelings. And suddenly the heater's outta your pocket. _What the fuck are you doin' _you think briefly, but you don't have time to think. The guys are runnin' towards you, but so are the cops. You aim. They fire.

The pounding fades, and so does everything else. This is what you wanted. They knew that. They complied.

Dallas Winston always gets what he wants.


End file.
